The Glory of Gondor
by Sabaye Leyr
Summary: A little ficlet about Boromir and Faramir as children; Boromir explains to Faramir where mommy has gone, and makes a promise to his little brother he'll work at the rest of his life.


The Glory of Gondor   
by Sabaye Leyr

Summary: A little ficlet about Boromir and Faramir as children; Boromir explains to Faramir where mommy has gone, and makes a promise to his little brother he'll work at the rest of his life. 

~~   
_"He looks to me to make things right, and I, I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored." Boromir, The Fellowship of The Ring_

_~~_ The great house of the Steward of Gondor was silent that morning when Boromir awoke to Faramir's insistent poking. 

Boromir blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes to see his little brother standing at the side of his bed. Faramir's bright eyes were wide and his short, soft blond hair was sticking up in every direction. At one time it had been longer, but after a particularly wild romp in the stables, Finduilas had decided it was much simpler to just cut off the tangled mass of hair and straw. 

"What is it, Faramir?" Boromir asked in an irritated voice. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he turned over. 

This time, five year old Faramir climbed onto the bed and pulled Boromir over to face him. 

"Something is wrong," he said gravely, tugging on Boromir's nightshirt sleeve. Boromir sat up, running a quick hand through his dark hair, and looked at Faramir. Faramir continued to pull on his shirt sleeve, but the tugging became less insistent as he quailed under the older boy's gaze. Though he had stopped the tugging, Faramir still looked at Boromir with large, frightened blue eyes. 

"Let us take a look, and I shall show you nothing is wrong," Boromir finally said with a sigh, and Faramir's face brightened. 

The ten year old pulled himself out of bed, shaking the sleep out of his limbs. Faramir quickly followed him, hopping off the bed and landing behind his brother. Boromir took the little boy's hand and the two brothers left his room and started down the hallway. 

It was still early morning; the sun had not risen, so torches still lined the stone walls. The firelight threw the rooms into shadow, and Faramir drew slightly closer to Boromir. 

Servants scurried about in a rush, and their faces were sad and drawn. Boromir's eyebrows furrowed. Perhaps Faramir was right. Perhaps something was wrong. Faint memories rose in the back of Boromir's head. He could remember, barely, the last time servants had been running about at this hour. Running about with stricken expressions on their faces. He hadn't understood it then, but that had been the night that Boromir's baby sister Alethiel had died. 

The sun began to rise, pale gray light filtering through the high windows of the hallway. Faramir let out a soft sigh as the long hallway grew brighter, and loosened his tight grip on his brother's hand. 

Boromir was worried. He began to walk quickly, dragging Faramir behind him. 

Boromir came to his parents' chambers and halted. He listened for a moment, and when he heard no sound, he pushed the door open a crack and stuck his head inside. 

The room was hot and stuffy, and the torches were burning low. The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, so it was dark, with only the orange light from the embers on the torches lighting the room. 

Boromir's father was leaning over the bed, his head bowed. The room was disturbingly silent, and there was a chilled feeling in the room, despite the sticky, hot heaviness of the air. Boromir watched, wide-eyed, a strange feeling in his heart. 

"Let me see!" Faramir whined, trying to push Boromir out of the way. Boromir pulled his head out and shushed him, then cracked the door open a little wider. Faramir stuck his head in eagerly, and Boromir followed. 

Denethor had lifted Finduilas into his arms. He sat down in the chair by their bed, gazing at her face. His eyes were glassy and the torchlight reflected oddly in them. 

The fair face of his mother was still, her lips pale and slightly parted. Her eyes were closed; and her sun-colored hair was still slightly damp with sweat. 

"Mama!" Faramir cried, shoving the door open and running into the room. His sudden movement knocked Boromir off balance, and he tumbled to the floor, grabbing at Faramir's ankles. He couldn't get a grip, and Faramir ran to his father. 

Denethor looked up at the loud noises, his grip on his wife instinctively tightening. A frown crossed his face as Faramir looked up at him. His tiny hand shyly petted his mother's hair as his father stared down at him. 

"Does being like that not hurt Mama's neck?" he asked innocently, his quiet voice cutting through the silence. Wordlessly, Denethor shifted Finduilas in his arms where her head no longer hung limply over his arm, but rested on his chest. 

Faramir beamed up at Denethor. 

"So, mama is better now? She isn't wet anymore," he continued cheerfully. His smile faded as Denethor continued to look down at him, the cold expression still on his face. 

Faramir's lip trembled. He wasn't used to his father looking at him that way. He shuffled sideways and grabbed Finduilas's cold hand. 

"Come, mama. Now that you be feeling better, we can look at maps!" he spoke softly, pulling gently on Finduilas's hand. Boromir had climbed to his feet and was watching from the doorway, the odd, confused and unbelieving expression still on his face. 

Denethor was looking tight-lipped at his younger son. There was no reason for him to be annoyed at Faramir--he didn't understand what had happened and it was not his fault. But at this moment, Denethor was so stricken, he wanted neither the sight nor company of anyone. 

"Take him away," he said, motioning to Faramir. Faramir didn't seem to notice, and continued pulling on Finduilas's hand, confused when he did not get a reaction. 

"Why does mama not move? What is wrong!" tears were welling up in his eyes, and he looked hurt, confused and terrified. Why did his mother not answer him? 

One of the male servants quickly crossed the room and firmly gripped Faramir's shoulders, pulling him about three feet away from Denethor and into a fairly open spot into the room. 

"No!" he shouted, squirming and trying to get away. 

"Mama! Wake up!" Faramir shrieked, fighting against the servant. Tears poured down his face. The servant hurried to attempt to get a proper grip on the child again. 

"Mama! What is wrong with mama?" he demanded. The servant finally picked Faramir up, struggling with the child. He began to kick, and continued his crying for Finduilas. At Denethor's pained glare, the servant clamped his hand down over the boy's mouth. 

Boromir had backed out of the room, and was hiding in the shadows, staring with disbelief in the room. He seemed to be in shock and made no movement either to help or hinder the servant with his brother. 

In his panic, Faramir bit down hard on the servant's hand. The man let out a curse and dropped Faramir. 

Faramir continued to wail quietly in confusion and fear, hugging his knees as he sat on the hard stone floor. Suddenly, someone came to stand in front of him, and dirty, travel stained robes filled his vision. Slowly, he looked up, lip trembling, and found himself looking into the face of a gray-cloaked, gray haired old man. 

"My young sir, you are making quite the racket," he said kindly, smiling down at the little boy. Faramir sniffed, wiping his nose. His brow furrowed in frustration. 

"...won't let me stay with mama..." he mumbled, sniffling again. 

"Oh..." he replied, raising his eyes to Denethor, who glared at him from his seat. 

"_Ai, Elbereth,"_ the gray man hissed under his breath. This was most unfortunate- it was likely that Denethor would never trust him again. He turned his gaze back to the sniffling little boy on the floor. 

"Faramir, you cannot stay with your mother," he said softly. The little boy's face was coming dangerously close to pouting. Faramir crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. 

"Why?" he asked, grabbing a handful of the bottom of the man's robes. 

"Because your mother is not here anymore," he replied firmly, taking the boy's hand. His confused expression returned, and he swung around, looking at Denethor and Finduilas again. 

"But...but, they right there," he argued and the old man bent down to his level with a small wince. 

"No, my dear boy, she's not. Come with me, Faramir, and let your father be in peace. I will take your brother with me too, and he will tell you what is happening," 

Slowly Faramir nodded, wiping his cheeks off with the sleeve of his nightshirt. The man smiled. 

"That's a good lad," he said, lifting Faramir up and loosely holding him against his hip. 

"Farewell, Denethor," he spoke to Faramir's father again, then turned and walked out of the room, one hand on his staff, the other holding up the Steward's child. Faramir had a tight grip around the man's neck. 

"Come with me, Boromir," he commanded, and Boromir meekly nodded, trailing behind the gray cloaked man. 

He brought them to the gardens, where the sun was still warming dew off the plants. The sun was bright, but the morning chill, with no breeze present at all. Birds softly chirped in the trees of the garden, but not even they dared to sing loudly, for they could feel the sadness in the air. The man set Faramir down on one of the benches, ruffled his hair, then turned to Boromir. 

The two whispered for a moment, then two tears slowly slipped down his cheek until he impatiently dashed them away. More tears continued to fall, however, and the old man used his thumb to wipe them away, all while continuing to speak to Boromir. When he fell silent, Boromir nodded, and the man smiled encouragingly. 

"Goodbye, sons of Denethor. There is no doubt that I shall see you both again," he said, smiling sadly, yet at the same time, cheerfully at them. Then he turned to leave, tightening his grip on his staff. Faramir stood up on the bench. 

"Sir! Who are you?" he shouted after him, and the gray wanderer turned back around. 

"Many names have I, Faramir Denethorson. Mithrandir the Elves call me, and Grayhame the Rohan," he began. 

"But what shall _I _call you?" Faramir interrupted, and Mithrandir's eyes sparkled. 

"Gandalf, my dear boy. You may call me Gandalf." he tipped his pointed hat, smiled again, then turned away. He walked through the gate to the garden, and vanished from sight. 

As soon as he was gone, Faramir ran down the length of the stone bench and leapt onto Boromir's back. 

"I like him. He is nice," he said cheerfully, and Boromir nodded. 

"He also said you would tell me what is wrong with Mama," he said a moment later. 

Boromir turned his head to look at his little brother, whose eyes were narrowed stubbornly. 

"I am old enough to know. Is that why father would not tell me?" he continued. Boromir set Faramir back on the bench and turned to face him. 

"No, that is not why," he said slowly, tears unwillingly sliding down his face. 

Immediately, small cool hands were pressing against his face, wiping the tears roughly away. 

"Don't cry," Faramir said quietly, looking at him with his large, bright eyes. 

"Faramir, mama's not coming back," Boromir spoke softly. Faramir's head cocked and he pulled his hands away from his face. 

"She hasn't gone anywhere! She is right there," Faramir immediately denied, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

"Yes, she has. She died, Faramir," he spoke sharply, then mentally berated himself for becoming impatient. He also noticeably winced at the word 'died'. 

"What?" Faramir's voice had adopted it's usual, inquisitive lilt. 

"It is a word that means she is not coming back," he continued, and the little boy started to protest again, but Boromir cut him off. 

"When people die, Faramir, their body stays, but they go. They never come back," Faramir stared open-mouthed at him. 

"Like...like Pared?" he asked slowly, recognition and understanding dawning in his eyes. Pared was the pony he had ridden on and played with many times through the short years of his life. Pared had recently died of old age, less than six months before, but Faramir could not fully grasp the concept. 

"Yes, like Pared," Boromir agreed. The brothers merely looked at each other for a moment. Then with a wail, Faramir burst into tears and threw himself on his brother. 

Boromir hugged him to his chest, biting his lip as he silently sobbed, tears trickling down his face. His usually calm and stoic face was sad, his eyes clenched tightly, trying to stop the flow of tears. Faramir continued to wail loudly, sobbing with great, gasping breaths. His arms were wrapped tightly around Boromir's neck, and Boromir had a hand supporting the back of Faramir's head that unconsciously ruffled his short hair in comfort. 

And that was how Denethor found them. He silently watched them for several moments, before he softly knocked on the garden gate. 

The two boys turned to face him as Boromir set Faramir on the ground. 

"My sons," Denethor said wearily, opening his arms. His boys ran up and hugged him around the middle. After a moment, he bent down, looking each of them in the eye. 

"I am sorry," he said quietly, then smiled sadly, ruffling Boromir's hair and lightly touching Faramir's nose. Faramir sniffled, his lip trembling as he fought not to burst into tears again. 

"Come now, my son. Put up a brave face; it shall all be alright. Stop crying, your mother would not like you to do so. You boys will need to play in the fields today, the house is not a place for children right now. Obey your father, and go," he said kindly but firmly, reaching up with a hand and squeezing Faramir's shoulder. Faramir nodded, and Denethor nodded encouragingly at him. Then he turned to Boromir and handed him a small, ivory horn. 

"If any Orcs come, blow this," he said, and Boromir nodded solemnly. 

Boromir took Faramir's hand and pulled him out the gate that Gandalf had recently passed through. 

"Be careful!" he called as an afterthought, a small, bittersweet smile playing on his lips. 

Then he turned and entered the great house, to pay a final farewell to his beloved before she was prepared for burial. 

~~ 

The sun now shone brightly from high in the sky, throwing the great fields of grass around Minas Tirith into a delightful warmth. Spring was coming; it could be smelled in the air. 

Boromir was sprawled out in the half-brown, half-green grass, staring up at the sky, his arms resting behind his head. Faramir was discreetly copying his older brother, but was unable to hold still for quite so long. So in the period of time Boromir had lain there, Faramir had gotten up, run around, practiced turning flips, fought invisible foes with a nonexistant sword, then flopped down in the grass again. 

After a moment, he turned to look at Boromir. 

"How did Mama die?" he asked suddenly, and Boromir slowly turned to face him. Faramir sat up on his elbow, biting his lip. 

"The Orcs killed her. They gave her a sickness, and it killed her," he answered bitterly, turning and glaring up at the pale blue sky. Faramir's blond eyebrows drew down over his eyes. 

"The orcs?" he inquired, and Boromir nodded slightly. 

"The Orcs," he confirmed, and Faramir's eyes narrowed. 

"Well, I hate the Orcs," Faramir finally said, sitting up and crossing his arms. A small smile touched his older brothers lips.   
  
"Good, it is what you are supposed to do," he said firmly, and Faramir looked slightly confused. 

"Why?" he said, and Boromir sighed noisily. Why was his response to everything always, 'why'? He had an unquenchable curiosity. Either that or he had to have an explaination for everything. 

"Because they destroy Gondor. They kill people and steal our glory. That is why we must fight them, too. To save our people," Boromir explained, and Faramir nodded. 

"But I heard Papa say that the Orcs were more and that we were weak to stop them," Faramir said cheerily, pausing slightly as he tried to remember his father's words. 

"Never say that. We will always stop them. Always. And Gondor will have it's glory again," Boromir had turned to look at Faramir again, who smiled brightly. 

"It shall?" 

"Yes. Gondor will have it's glory, and I swear that to you," Boromir said firmly, turning to gaze at Minas Tirith, which was like liquid silver in the afternoon sun. He would have a heroes welcome one day, and he would return glory to his father's country.   


~~ A/N: Woot, I'm glad that plot-bunny is gone now. I've always viewed Boromir as seeming older than his age, so if he seems a little mature for a ten year old, that was intentional. This also sort of ties in with Burning From Within, my Denethor POV fic. 

~Sabaye   
  
  
  



End file.
